


Five Times Kakashi Touched Sakura's Ass

by sowell



Category: Naruto
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-13 01:32:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/818388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sowell/pseuds/sowell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exactly what it says on the tin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Kakashi Touched Sakura's Ass

**Author's Note:**

> For Adi <3

The first time is an accident. She’s sixteen and rushing through the tree branches beside Naruto, carefully watching the left side of the path for ambush. In the front, Sai beckons for Kakashi, and Kakashi moves to conference with his lookout.  
  
As he travels past Sakura mid-leap, his arm accidentally brushes her.  
  
One moment he’s perfectly airborne, the next he’s been slammed an inch into the ground, staring upward and trying to breathe through what he’s sure are several broken ribs.  
  
When his vision clears, the faces of his three team members are leaning over him. Sakura looks pained, which he thinks is a little ironic given the fact that he's the one who’s just had the shit beaten out of him.  
  
“Are you all right?” she asks in a small voice. “You startled me.”  
  
“Just…fine,” Kakashi wheezes.  
  
“Try not to move,” Sai advises. “You probably have a punctured lung.”  
  
“You shouldn’t sneak up like that,” Sakura says. Her cheeks are very red. She puts her hands over his chest and begins to ease healing chakra through him. “You have to give a little warning.”  
  
He considers reminding her that, as shinobi, their primary skill is stealth. But her mood seems tenuous, and he has no desire to get punched again.  
  
“I’ll…yell...next time,” he manages to force out.  
  
Naruto is nodding sagely. “I learned that a long time ago,” he says.  
  


*

  
  
The second time is not an accident, although he’ll swear to his dying day that it is. It’s simply not his fault that the assignment Tsunade sent them on required Sakura to dress like one of the cocktail waitresses at the seediest bar in Rock Country. It wasn’t exactly a task he could take on himself, was it?  
  
“Ugh,” she says, wobbling toward their rendezvous point on three inch heels. “I’m going to kill Tsunade for this.”  
  
“I don’t think the job requires you to keep the heels on all the time,” he says, amused. “But I admire your dedication.”  
  
She shoots him a look and reaches down to take off the shoes. The position does interesting things to her already-astonishingly-short dress. There are silver sequins flaking off onto her legs, and Kakashi tries not to stare for too long.  
  
“Did you get the names?” he asks, attempting to at least pretend he’s still interested in the mission.  
  
“No,” she says in disgust. “I’ll have to go back in. They think I’m on a smoke break. Like I’d ever smoke! Gross.”  
  
“Right,” he says. “Well…be careful. Try to look a little more…seductive. You’ll fit in better.”  
  
The look she shoots him is so rife with loathing that he has to muffle his laugh with a hand. She turns to leave, and he sees that the hem of her dress is caught in the back. The flimsy fabric is snagged on a sequin, dangling precariously.  
  
He clears his throat. “You’re a little…uh.”  
  
She looks at him impatiently.  
  
“Well, your dress is…” He tries to motion with his hands.  
  
“What?” she says dangerously. “I’m not in the mood for charades.”  
  
He reaches out and snaps the dress back down into place. It looks slightly more decent than the alternative, although not much.  
  
“There,” he says cheerfully. “Good to go.”  
  
Long after she’s disappeared back into the bar, his thumb is tingling from the brief contact with her skin.  
  


*

He can be forgiven for the third time, he’s sure of it. Certain etiquette is overlooked when a man is at death’s door.  
  
“Quit it,” she says, slapping his hand away from her hair. “I’m trying to help you.”  
  
“Don’t bother,” he says weakly. “There’s no hope. Kiss me instead.”  
  
“You don’t want to kiss me,” she says sternly. “It’s the blood loss making you lightheaded.”  
  
“Don’t patronize your sensei,” he tells her, covering her fingers with his own. Hers are slick with his blood, pressed firmly against the gushing wound in his stomach.  
  
“When you talk, it bleeds more,” she says. “So be quiet.”  
  
He obeys for the moment. The light from the sun is like a halo around her head, painful and lovely at the same time. She has dirt all over her face, smudges and scratches marring her skin, and her cheeks are wet. She’s crying like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it, mouth set and eyes fierce.  
  
Her vest is ripped in a dozen places, some tinged with blood, others remnants from a near-miss with the sharp edge of a blade. She rarely gets hit anymore. She knows she’s needed by her teammates too badly to up and die on them. If the medic gets taken out, who will keep everyone else going? He didn’t give her much in his years as her teacher, but he likes to think he gave her that – that sense of comradeship, that determination to protect those around her. Some of it is her own, of course. She would have been a fiercely loyal woman no matter who taught her jutsu. But he wants to believe he reinforced it a little. It comforts him, every time she draws on her own strength to help the people she loves.  
  
If he closes his Sharingan and lets his other eye go unfocused, her face almost starts to blend in with the sky. It’s not a terrible image to choose as his last. Her pale skin like the clouds and her eyes as green as any leaf sprung from the ground and the curved line of her shoulders like…  
  
He jerks when she slaps him across the face. She says his name in a choked, panicked voice, like she’s been calling it for a long, long time.  
  
“You are not dying,” she says furiously. “I’ll beat you black and blue if that’s what it takes to keep you awake.”  
  
Even his tongue feels numb, but he manages to slide his hand from her wrist to her waist, soft and shaking against his palm.  
  
“I want to kiss you,” he says, words slurred.  
  
“I said quit it,” she yells. “You’re injured. It’s indecent.”  
  
“You’re my least favorite student,” he tells her. When he slides his hand down to the curve of her ass, she just presses her lips together and begins to heal him again.  
  


*

  
The fourth time is a mistake, although he doesn’t regret it. Tsunade’s death hits the entire village hard, but no one feels it more keenly than Sakura. She spends three days cleaning out the Hokage’s tower with Shizune, movements mechanical and face blank.  
  
Kakashi watches until he can’t stand it anymore. He yanks her into an empty office in the middle of the lunch hour and holds her there in front of him, hands tight around her upper arms.  
  
“What?” she asks, staring up at him. Her voice is perfectly calm.  
  
“You’re not doing anyone any favors by running yourself into the ground,” he tells her. He’s speaking quietly, but he wonders if she can hear the emotion underneath. Rage, sympathy, weariness – he can’t quite pinpoint it. Maybe it’s all of them. Too many of the younger generation have lost their important people already, his students most of all.  
  
“I’m fine,” she says, and starts to shake him off. Naruto and Sai are easily fooled by that answer, but Kakashi has seen enough grief to know better.  
  
“You’re not,” he says, tightening his grip. “You can’t keep this up forever. It won’t do anyone any good if you have a breakdown in the middle of Tsunade’s office.”  
  
“Oh, I’m so  _sorry_ ,” she sneers, and her voice is like nothing he’s ever heard before. Sakura is passionate and impulsive and too honest for her own good sometimes, but she’s not…this. Not cold sarcasm and eyes like flint.  
  
“Am I making you uncomfortable?” she says tightly. “Which shinobi rule am I violating?”  
  
“That’s not – ” he starts harshly, but she cuts him off.  
  
“Of course you wouldn’t want me to have a breakdown,” she continues angrily, and he can see that she's beginning to cry, now. “Then you’d have to deal with actual emotion, and the Copy Ninja doesn’t do that, right? It’s better if I go home and grieve alone, like you. Then I can spend the rest of my life reading porn and disappearing whenever people need me and never letting anyone close. Hey, maybe I’ll get a mask, too. That way I can – ”  
  
He kisses her to stop her ranting, just leans forward and pressing his mouth against hers, mask and all. She makes a little choking sound, and he can taste the tears on her skin.  
  
He slides an arm around her shoulders, and she goes up on her toes to wrap both arms around his neck. He wishes his mask was at the bottom of the ocean so he could feel her lips for real. He’s arching her backward without meaning to, kissing her so desperately that he’s afraid he’ll scare her. But she backs up with him, one foot behind the other until she comes up against the desk.  
  
He hefts her up with two hands under her bottom and sits her there. Her legs come up around his hips as naturally as breathing, and it’s like torture to pull his mouth away.  
  
He does, though, little by little as his self-possession comes back to him. He puts his hands on her thighs to keep her still, then steps away, breathing hard. Her eyes are huge in her face, confused and glazed and still suffused with all the sorrow he knew was hiding under the surface.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he says in a low voice. “You need to grieve. But not like this.”  
  
She presses a hand to her mouth. “What the hell was that?” she whispers, and he almost kisses her again.  
  
He shudders instead and backs away from her. “Go home,” he says. “Before you fall apart.”  
  
“ _Me_ fall apart?” she says indignantly. “You’re the one who just – ”  
  
He slams the door before she finishes her sentence. By the time she bursts into the hall, determination on her face, he’s already hidden himself from view.  
  


*

The fifth – but by no means  _last_ – time, she doesn’t even acknowledge it. After all, she’s naked and he’s  _in her_ , so it's likely that the groping barely registers.  
  
Her bright hair is spread out on his pillow, cheeks flushed and eyes closed. He licks at a spot behind her ear, reveling in her groan.  
  
“Explain to me again why we’ve never done this before,” he muses.  
  
“Because,” she pants. “You’re a stubborn asshole.”  
  
“Right,” he says. He trails his mouth down to one pert breast, making lazy patterns all over her nipple. She swears at no one in particular and presses him closer, one leg hooking around the back of his thigh. Her hands clutch at his hair when he thrusts into her, and if she pulls a little too hard for comfort…he’s not about to complain.  
  
Afterward, she flops onto his chest, graceless and sprawling and still so sexy that he wishes he had the energy to do it all over again.  
  
She rubs her face against his skin, and he plays with her fingers. They’re scarred and battered from training, and he wants to lick them all, one by one, and make her come without touching her anywhere else.  
  
Next time, he tells himself.  
  
“I have a confession,” he says, and she raises her head. “I’ve admired your ass for years.”  
  
She rolls her eyes, then drops back down. “Pervert,” she says. “Like I couldn’t tell.”  
  
He pinches her, and she bites his shoulder. “I could tell,” she said. “But I wasn’t sure if you felt anything. Or if you felt something and were going to be an idiot about it, or if you were going to pull that annoying disappearing act, or if I even wanted to start something with someone as completely emotionally deficient as my ex-sensei…”  
  
“All right,” he says, faintly. “No more.”  
  
She smiles at him, and it’s so warm and bright and easy that it starts his heart thumping in his chest. “Want to talk about something else?” she asks mischievously.  
  
“I’d rather not talk at all,” he says dryly. “I think I like you better when you’re quiet.”  
  
“Don’t be difficult,” she says. “Or I’ll rescind your groping privileges.”  
  
He doesn’t tease her again for the rest of the night.


End file.
